Infest
by one four two nine seven eight
Summary: Chapter Nine now up! Inspired and named for Papa Roach's album Infest, each chapter is from a different perspective in an effort to capture Draco's true essence. Suicidal thoughts, Dark Arts, Slash, et cetera.
1. Infest

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+ Infest: A Harry Potter Song Fic by Canarde +

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+ Chapter One: Infest +

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    Author's Note: This will be confusing. The point of it is not to tell a continuous story, but to attempt to delve beneath the cold surface of Draco Malfoy. Much of it does pertain to the Draco/Lucius relationship in a strictly father/son way; however, I have also explored the possibilities of Draco/Ron and Draco/Blaise. Hopefully I'm proving some sort of point in all of this, but if not, just enjoy it for what it is.
    

If you have not heard Papa Roach's album Infest, I suggest finding and listening to it. Each chapter is based on a song, and it would probably be easier to follow if you've heard the songs. The album is very much the soundtrack of the piece.

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"Now that I got your attention,

Did I forget to mention

All the heads we'll be infesting?

Hope you people learn your lessons,

'Cause the game of life is crazy.

Got all the people guessing

What is wrong with the world today:

The government, the media, or your family.

Would you cry if I died today?

I think it would be better if you did not say.

+ + +

"First, they shackle your feet,

Then they stand you in a line,

Then they beat you like meat,

Then they grab you by your mind.

We will infest, die like the rest;

People are the problem today."

+

+ From the Memoirs of Lucius Malfoy +

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+ Corruption +

I never meant for my son to be witness to this. This, the mess of my life and of so many others just like mine, has been ground to a pulp by a man who isn't. 

It baffles me that these young people - children - can watch the sort of gruesome tortures we are all witness to on a near daily basis and still come out of it relatively unfazed. Naturally, they have always expected to see things like these because of what they've been taught - by their own parents, by their friends, by their professors. How someone can teach their own child, a part of themselves, to hate as some of these kids do is beyond my comprehension. 

A perfect example of a child corrupted from birth is Pansy Parkinson, daughter of a former classmate of mine, who has never known anything other than the drive to kill innocents. I pride myself on being a loyal Death Eater, but the things this particular little girl - who, at first glance, is bubbly and happy and the complete opposite of what is sought after in a proper Death Eater - speaks of as though she is not affected by them in the least make quite a formidable list. 

At the Quidditch World Cup when Draco was fourteen, several unmentionable members of the elite society I have known only as the Death Eaters decided to have a bit of fun with those innocents who owned the campground. I will admit to having recruited a sizable amount of witches to the Dark Lord's service, and I will even go so far as to admit that I have tortured wizards to gain information for the Dark Lord; but never - _never_ - have I preformed an Unforgivable Curse on another human being in all my years of service, especially on an innocent or Muggle.

And I have never been asked to do so. The Dark Lord does not know many things; but of the greater many things he does know is the fact that a Malfoy will not kill another person, even if said person might very well deserve death. I have been firm in teaching Draco this; for, if he chooses to join our ranks, I do not want him to become an assassin, murderer, cold-blooded killer. There are a great many people who would eagerly kill any number of wizards for the single word of congratulance given by the Dark Lord himself. I do not want Draco to be among them.

I have made it quite clear to my son that if - and I am leaving the decision up to him alone - he joins the ranks of the Death Eaters, he will most certainly be welcome. But if he so much as threatens a man with death, he will no longer be considered a Malfoy. 

+ Morals +

Death does not frighten me. I would not betray my morals even when staring death in the face, and I have done so a great many times. I suppose that this proves to the Dark Lord that I am loyal to my beliefs and am not quick to betray. He must admire it, because of my high status within the Death Eaters.

I am confronted on a daily basis by jealous others within the ranks of the Dark Lord, all of whom threaten me with death, torture, monetary loss, and revealing of information to the Lord. They want my position as near right-hand man to the Dark Lord himself. They claim that they can feel the evil while in my presence - something which radiates only from very blackened souls. But I ignore them all. Their threats fall upon deaf ears, for there is only one thing in this world and the next which would make me hand over my status in a heartbeat: harm to my boy, and those who threaten me are too stupid to realize this.

Since he was a baby, Draco has shown an extraordinary amount of talent as a wizard. By the age of four, he could recite as many incantations and spells as a fifth-year at Hogwarts, and at the time of his first year of Wizarding School, he was more talented with a wand than many of the Death Eaters I have met in my time in the ranks.

But even more than the extent of his talents, more important that his ability to project a Dark Mark or preform a decent hex or curse, is the love I have for him. It is difficult for some to believe that I, Lucius Malfoy, would be capable of such strong emotions that are not of the Dark Arts at all, but rather that which represents good and light in the world. I don't even love my wife half as much as I love Draco, and that's the honest truth.

+ Advice +

Recently I took Draco to a meeting of the Death Eaters in London. He did well in masking his feelings on the matter as mere boredom, because I could not decipher if he was nervous, excited, anxious, or dreading. He took it all with a dutiful and respectful silence.

On the train into the city, I told him that this was the last meeting he had to go to if he wanted nothing to do with the Dark Lord. He looked at me thoughtfully before saying, "But you aren't expecting me to turn it away, are you?"

"I have no expectations, Draco," I said. "The choice is completely up to you - and don't let anyone else influence you, either. It's got to be your own decision." He nodded and looked out the window.

"How did you decide to become a Death Eater?" I smiled; he did not. I doubt he has ever trusted me, even as a very young child. "How could you trust the others enough to not turn you in to the Ministry?" I answered his question in a lesson I often repeated to him.

"You can never trust too much or too little. Never trust a man until you know he will not betray you, and never trust anyone enough to tell him your true intentions until you know he'll keep the business your own." He seemed unimpressed.

"Draco," I asked, "do you trust me?" 

"Sometimes more than others," he said simply. I nodded, leaning back in my seat.

"And when you do trust me, why?" He caught on rather quickly, but I had expected him to. 

"Because you leave my business to me. You know how to keep a secret."

"As well I should." 

Later that evening, he asked me to supervise as he practiced a new lesson from one of his new texts for the coming school year. It was a simple charm, really, a levitation spell to use on larger objects to move them about the room. He set about practicing in my study, where he could lift desks, chairs, bookcases, and the like.

He was quite talented at lifting the objects a safe distance from the floor, but controlling the movement proved a bit more difficult. The furniture wobbled through the air before plummeting or shooting off and hitting a wall. After several failed attempts, he slumped into an unused armchair and sighed heavily.

"You're giving up?" He scowled at me, and I cleared my throat disapprovingly. At this he sat up straight and gave a proper answer.

"Yes, I'm giving up," he said. "Obviously it's too difficult for me; I'll try it again when Professor Flitwick gives the lesson."

"Draco, you're only having problems because you aren't listening to your instinct." He raised a skeptical eyebrow, but said nothing. "Always listen to your instinct," I continued. "Instinct never let a man die unless he deserved it. Remember that, and you'll be able to move any desk you want."

This seemed to brighten his outlook, and he got to his feet. Pointing his wand at the armchair, he narrowed his eyes and muttered the spell; the chair lifted from the floor easily. Tensing slightly, he glanced at me.

"Relax," I said. "Trust me." 

And he did. The armchair sliced the air and landed neatly at the other end of the room. Soon after, the desks, bookshelves, and chairs followed suit, and my study had rearranged itself nicely.

+ Decision +

Narcissa and I have never loved one another. 

Her father, a wealthy edition to the newly-formed society of the Death Eaters, and my own made an agreement that, if his new daughter and I were to wed, our family would never again know financial troubles. Having monetary troubles at the time, my father sold me and my life to the Dark Lord, who in turn has treated me well; he has always known of the deal they made so many years ago and, I suppose, pities me. I fancy pity over spite any day.

Because I have grown up in the Death Eaters, it has never been something I've lived without - and that is why I gave Draco a choice in the matter of joining. I was a bitter child because of the blackened tattoo on my arm, and anyone who went through Hogwarts with me knew me as a terror, a boy who spat insults and frightened other boys into being my friend. The name Malfoy is a loathed name, and it is my own fault that Draco now has to endure that loathing. 

I would take it back if I could. Now, Draco believes that I willingly became loyal to the Dark Lord and it's destined for him to join the ranks as well. He told Narcissa and me of his decision one innocent night at supper.

"Mother," he said, his spoon hovering over his soup bowl. She looked up; a glance to me, a glance to the house-elf at the door, who disappeared promptly, and her gaze was fixed on Draco. I followed suit, studying his face. He's a good-looking child, with pale hair and a sharp eye - quite as I was at his age. "Father." 

"Yes, dear?" Narcissa said. I shivered; the very purr of her voice is colder than the snow in London.

"I've decided to join the Dark Lord." He sipped his soup neatly, avoiding his mother's fond eye as she teared up and my lingering glance. I was heart-broken. If given the opportunity, I would give up my position as a Death Eater in a heartbeat.

"Very well," I said coldly, tossing my napkin onto the table and getting to my feet. "I'll send an owl at once."

He looked to me for approval as I left the room, but I did not grant him that satisfaction. I had to do my best to mask my disappointment as solemn and dutiful stone.

+ Shackles +

I watched Draco become a Death Eater, against my wishes. The induction ceremony is a simple one; the Dark Lord and four others come together with the wizard to be inducted, recite several lines to which the inductee vows his allegiance to the Dark Lord, and burn the Dark Mark into his left forearm. The Dark Lord never speaks at these ceremonies; rather, he has one of his chosen four recite, one guide the iron, and the remaining two hold the child down as the Mark is seared into his flesh.

Draco hardly needed the two men to hold him. He pledged to follow the Dark Lord loyally throughout his reign, et cetera, and accepted the Mark without a word. He blinked back tears and bit his lip, merely grunting as the red-hot iron pressed against his arm, but at sixteen he considered himself a man. He was a Malfoy; he didn't feel pain.

The Dark Lord had me guide the iron. I was forced to brand my own son like he was a bull, the property of another man. 

I heard his stifled sobs and cried as though I had been marked with skull and snake that night.

+ Freedom +

The Dark Lord, though powerful, has yet to regain the impressive looks of his youth. His dark hair and fair skin have long since given way to the leathery, shriveled creature he has become. The only feature which remains as it was when Ton Riddle became the Dark Lord are his sparkling crimson eyes.

Soon after Draco's induction, I visited the Dark Lord in the poorly maintained flat belonging to Peter Pettigrew. I suppose it serves its purpose and remains inconspicuous, but it is obvious that the Dark Lord is not much impressed by its shabby wallpaper and chipped mantle.

He was seated in a large and winged armchair, facing a sweeping fire. I bowed low, but refused his request that I stand.

"Lord, I am not here to report on disloyal members of your great ranks at the Ministry as I often am," I said. 

I knelt before him a long moment before he said in his low and rasping voice, "You are here to receive permission to be free." I nodded, glancing into his crimson eyes.

"If it pleases you, Lord." He nodded thoughtfully, steepling his fingers and bringing the tips of his protruding fingers to his thin mouth. Pettigrew fidgeted nervously in a corner, his tiny eyes flicking from me to the Dark Lord.

"Lucius," he said, finally, "I understand that you have been loyal to me in all your years of service." His eyes looked past my bent figure, peering straight through my flesh and into my true intentions. "You and your son have been a worthy addition to my Death Eaters."

"Yes, my Lord."

He leaned close, lowering his voice; now Pettigrew craned to hear him before the snake came into the room and startled him into attendance. 

"If you were any other man I would have you cut down for daring to request leave," he said in a tone very much like the purr of my wife's. "But you were brought to me against your will and have not betrayed me all the same." He paused again, watching me with those eyes, and added very quietly, "I will grant you your freedom."

"Thank you, my Lord," I said. I returned to my feet, but did not step away. The Dark Lord had closed his eyes, and the shadows from the fire cast eerie patterns across his face. "Lord?" His eyes opened, already focused on me.

"Yes, Malfoy," he nodded, "should young Mister Malfoy ever request his own freedom, it will be granted."

"Thank you, Lord - Lord Voldemort."

+

Thank you to Justin Tussing, Ben Doyle, and Thisbe Nissan, director and professors of the University of Iowa Young Writers Studio 2001, for their time, efforts, talent, and humor.

It's an inspiration to Seventeen magazine to find a story written by a former professor in print.

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All characters used in this piece of fiction are property of J.K. Rowling and copyright Warner Brothers.

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Song lyrics are property of Papa Roach and copyright Viva La Cucaracha Music.

+

Chapter Two coming soon to a fan fiction archive near you.


	2. Last Resort

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+ Infest: A Harry Potter Song Fic by Canarde +

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+ Chapter Two: Last Resort +

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"Do you even care if I die bleeding?

Would it be wrong, would it be right

If I took my life tonight?

Chances are that I might.

Mutilation out of sight,

And I'm contemplating suicide.

+ + +

"I never realized I was spread too thin

Till it was too late and I was empty within.

Hungry, feeding on chaos and living in sin:

Downward spiral, where do I begin?

It all started when I lost my mother,

No love for myself and no love for another;

Searching to find a love upon a higher level,

Finding nothing but questions and devils."

+

Thursday night shone clear through the window. Stars twinkled merrily in the velvet of the sky, the moon smiled down in a crescent, oblivious to the blade reflecting its light into the pale face of a sixteen-year-old boy. 

The bathroom was private enough; well after midnight on a school night, most students were tucked away soundly in their beds. Draco Malfoy, however, had dissolved into the shadows of the school and evaporated into the night, arriving in a lavatory on the fourth floor where he could be alone. He had locked the door and checked for ghosts, and now stood facing a grimy mirror, his robes discarded on the floor several feet away with his shoes, socks, and pressed white shirt.

He leaned over the sink, studying himself in the mirror. Strings of platinum blond hair, once slicked back perfectly, had slipped and hung over grey eyes. These eyes had once been flashing silver, but now gazed back at him dully, shielding themselves with dark bags. Against his pale skin the shadows under his eyes were even more obvious, and his veins appeared beneath his transparently pallid complexion, royal purple and blue.

He was thin, too thin for his height. Ribs stuck out on either side; he could count them easily. The hairs at the nape of his neck stood up as he ran the pads of his fingers over thin scars at his waist, and one dull eye caught on the burnt outline on his left forearm.

A skull and snake, blocky and simple, gaped back at him through the mirror as he held up his hand to his face. He breathed in sharply, through the long and delicate nose he had inherited from his father. If he closed his eyes, it was not difficult to remember the smell of burning flesh as his father pressed a steaming, red iron to his arm. The smoke had billowed; every nostril in the damp underground cavern had breathed in the smell of charred flesh that night. Draco was certain his father had enjoyed seeing him writhe in pain.

Despite his emaciated frame, he was not all skin and bones. There was a light layer of muscle on his arms and stomach and legs. He had once been a prized athlete between Quidditch and his training over holidays. And Voldemort had employed him as a courier, which had gained him much strength and agility.

The narrow scars on his waist reminded him painfully of an encounter in the Dark Forest. Three years ago he had disappeared into the forest to escape an embarrassing situation in the common room, and he had paid dearly for it. A run-in with a most vicious werewolf had ensued; he had escaped only by the luck that a large black dog had cannoned into them and ripped the wolf away from Draco. Not wanting to visit the school nurse, who would report the injury to the headmaster, he had taken it upon himself to mend his wounds. In the library he found a book on healing after a hasty job of dressing the cuts, but the nasty scars remained in his otherwise perfect skin.

Draco took the slender knife in his hand once again. Stolen from his father's collection, the knife's blade only reached from his wrist to the tip of his finger and was shaped in a stretched hourglass, the end coming to a point which glittered in the moon and lamplight. The handle was black and a soft leather, the pommel stone an icy blue set in silver. 

He touched the tip to his finger and drew blood nearly instantly. A tiny droplet of delicious red appeared on his skin and swelled slowly; he was oblivious to the wild hunger in his eyes as the blood stained the blade ever so slightly.

He had not taken the knife for the purpose of his own demise; rather, he had used it in his missions for the Dark Lord when situations arose. No one challenged a Malfoy with a blade. He merely flashed the silver of the handle and blue pommel stone and his opponent fled. He had not yet needed to use it to end a man's life.

Not until tonight. 

He hesitated, the blade shaking in his hand. Though he had often thought of ending his own life, he had never come as close as this. Did he really want to toss his life away as quickly as this?

The Dark Lord had made it very clear that he did not approve of suicide, though, as he pointed out, he could do little to stop anyone from ending their own life. But one who killed himself never received the same respect as one who died in the line of duty; a suicide victim was ridiculed after life by the living Death Eaters. Draco did not want to shame his father.

He had to remind himself that the reason he stood with a knife to his throat was his father. A true Malfoy, his father had always been loyal to the Dark Lord. He had recruited more Death Eaters than any other, had covered the trail for the Dark Lord more times than any other, had branded more men than any other. He had given his own son the Dark Mark without so much as a word to soothe the pain of the iron.

Yes, Lucius Malfoy was indeed a true Death Eater, and he was the reason Draco would no longer be considered as such.

As Draco lifted the blade, his eyes silently marking where the cold metal would seal his fate, there was a soft rapping at the window, and the knife clattered into the porcelain bowl of the sink. An owl perched on the windowsill outside, nearly silhouetted against the pristine light from the moon. Draco opened the window and took the letter from the eagle-owl's beak, stroking his feathers fondly. The owl ruffled itself and took flight eagerly.

'_Draco_,' the note read, '_please excuse the late hour of my writing to you. You must understand that I would not have sent Laertes had it not been urgent._

'_This evening I risked a visit to Lord Voldemort _- ' Draco shuddered at the mention of the Dark Lord by his right name - ' _despite the danger in which I placed myself and the Lord. I would not have done so had I not been as respected by Voldemort as I am, nor would I have done so if I had not been as loyal as I have been for as long as I have been. _

'_The reason for my visit (and for my writing to you so urgently) is this: tonight I requested freedom from the Death Eaters. Most pleasing and surprising is that he indulged my wishes, and I am currently unemployed by the Dark Lord._

'_Now, the reason I am writing to tell you this at this absurd hour is one which would deprive me of sleep if I did not allow myself to pass another piece of news to you._

'_After I obtained my own freedom, I was granted permission to make it known that you, also, are freed from the ranks of Voldemort. If you do not wish to leave the Death Eaters, so be it; the Dark Lord will, I'm quite certain, accept you back willingly._

'_In the event that you accept freedom from Voldemort, write me back immediately. We can then discuss the matter of ridding yourself of the Mark which plagues your flesh. I cannot tell you how remorseful I am to have been the one to give it to you._

'_Your mother sends her love, as do I._

'_Lucius Malfoy_.'

Draco Malfoy read and reread the stiff paper until his grey eyes watered with effort. Then, carefully folding the letter and tucking it into the pocket of his trousers, he gathered up his robes from the floor of the bathroom, and dissolved into the shadows of the school.

In the bottom of the porcelain sink, the icy blue pommel stone of his father's knife glinted malevolently in the innocent light of the moon.

+

Thank you Bela, who taught me to be wary of the Wednesday afternoon bus.

And Katie, who reminded me that mittens are not just for small children, but also for the young at heart.

+

All characters used in this piece of fiction are property of J.K. Rowling and copyright Warner Brothers.

+

Song lyrics are property of Papa Roach and copyright Viva La Cucaracha Music.

+

Chapter Three coming soon to a fan fiction archive near you.


	3. Broken Home

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+ Infest: A Harry Potter Song Fic by Canarde +

+

+ Chapter Three: Broken Home +

+

"I know my mother loves me,

But does my father even care

If I'm sad or angry?

You were never ever there

When I needed you;

I hope you regret what you did.

I think I know the truth;

Your father did the same to you."

+

+ First Year +

At the train station, my mother hovers at my side with a hanky as she dabs at her eyes. She fusses over my robes and trunks and owl and looks at me as though she may never see me again. Perhaps she knows something I don't; more likely she's acting the proper mother and worrying over me to no end. When she tries to wipe a non-existent smudge from my cheek with her pristine hanky, I duck away.

My father stands at a respectable distance, close enough that people will know who his family is but back a step, as though he doesn't want to be associated with me. As I dodge the hanky and my mother, I glance at him, hoping he'll step in but knowing he won't. He watches with disdain curling on his lip.

The train threatens to leave, and Crabbe and Goyle, the massive sons of the men my father works with, arrive in time to haul my things into a empty compartment. My mother continues to fuss as I make for the train, but my father continues to watch the scene in silence.

His arms are crossed over neat black robes, his blond hair slicked away from his face. His sharp features are more obtuse without a fringe to offset them, and his eyes are blades slicing through the crowds. 

I take a seat by the window and wave to my mother as she dabs at her eyes once more. My father turns on his heel and Disapparates without so much as a second glance. My mother blows a kiss and puts on a brave smile, more for herself than for me, and does not disappear until after the train pulls away from the station.

Taking a hint from my father, I do not look back.

+ Second Year +

I step off the train flanked by Crabbe and Goyle. They leave the school this year with less intelligence than they arrived with, if that is at all possible, but are still just as eager to avenge the injury of my toes, which have just been run over by another student's trolley.

"Do you want me to pound him for you?" the one on my right asks. The offender mutters something and wheels away, and I shake my head.

"Don't bother." I take my place beside my trunk and owl, who is as fierce as he looks. The bored look I have close to perfected masks my face as I look anxiously around for sight of my parents.

There are a great many adults waiting on the platform whom I recognize, mostly those who work under my father at the Ministry. That, at least, is how they've been introduced to me; but by the way they shield their left forearms from prying eyes, it's fairly obvious that they are Death Eaters like my father.

"_Draco!_" I glance into the crowd, which parts as my mother sweeps through.

She's an elegant woman, my mother, with curling blonde hair and pale blue eyes. She keeps her hair parted to one side and pinned back, with a thick bit in the front tucked behind her ear. Today, as she nearly suffocates me within her embrace, she is dressed in robes of pale blue to match her eyes. Her mouth is painted, and when she kisses my cheek I can feel the red smudge she leaves in her wake. This gives her an excuse to scrub my face with her hanky, and I let her fuss over me and my things while I search for my father.

"Mum," I say, my eyes roving over the crowd as though maybe he will appear from nothing, "where's Father?" She glances at me with those pale eyes and purses her lips.

"He ... wasn't feeling well," she says neatly, standing up straight and tucking away her hanky. "Come on, then, let's get you home and have some food put in you. You're hungry, aren't you?" I nod numbly and allow her to invite the house-elves she's brought along to tend to the trolley loaded with my things.

+ Third Year +

It's Christmas, and I'm going home. Tomorrow the train leaves, and getting away from this house of deceit would mean more to me than the world. Being a Slytherin entitles me to an easy Potions grade, but little more. My father has so tainted my name that it's difficult to find anything but loathing in this place.

The Great Hall is ready for the holidays. Professor Flitwick, it seems, has gone all out in decorating the cold stone of the Hall; twenty tall Evergreen trees are dripping with baubles and candles, and even the silverware on the tables is adorned with tinsel while sparkling icicles hang from archways and buttresses.

I have taken my usual seat at the Slytherin table, though I would rather be at even the Hufflepuff table than here. At least Hufflepuffs have friends who speak honestly, unlike the pack of lies Pansy Parkinson has fed me all term. But with the sharp features I inherited from my father, I can ward off the sickly attempts at kindness that these snakes feed me. No one crosses a Malfoy with a scowl.

Owls soar through the higher windows, their powerful wings beating the air as they circle, looking for the student to whom their envelope is addressed. A familiar hawk-owl dips low and drops a sealed envelope into my hands. The feminine loops of the writing tell me that this is from my mother; I tear it open at once and read:

__

Draco,

Your father has accepted a case which will send him to France for the Christmas holidays. Be proud, Draco, he is well respected in the Ministry! But, unfortunately, this means you will have to spend the holidays at school. I'm so sorry. I urged your father to change the dates of the trip, but his instructions are clear and cannot be altered. 

Have a Happy Christmas; we'll forward your presents as soon as possible!

Much love,

Mum

Later, in my room, I burn the letter with flames from the wand my father gave me.

+ Fourth Year +

My father has not bothered to see me off this year. My mother came alone, dabbing at her eyes with her hanky. But this year, she is not crying for me.

My parents fought this morning before we left. I was packing my trunk, and even from where my bedroom is I could hear them shouting. The entire summer holidays they have been arguing, my father being the instigator of all of it. Usually I stay out of it, but this morning I slipped from my room, creeping along the halls until I found them in my father's study.

" ... I don't want to see him off, Narcissa," my father was saying. "I was there when he came home, why see him off again so soon?"

"He's your son, Lucius," she snapped.

"He's your son, too," he replied softly. 

There was a long pause, and then my mother said, "You're too selfish to see it, but he wants you there. He needs you there! You never think about what he wants."

"Maybe it isn't about what he wants but what is good for him," my father said shortly.

"Let him decide. It's his life."

"Fine," his voice dripped bitterness. "Fine. Let him call all the shots around here; I'm only his father. I don't know the best."

"You're turning into Augustus."

"_I am not my father!_" There was a loud crack, and then silence filled the house.

Next moment, my mother came sweeping out, hands over her face. I bit my lip to keep from crying; it killed me to see my mother in tears, and more often than not lately she was.

At the platform, my mother fusses, as is expected.

"Mum, I don't want to go back." She looks at me sadly as she straightens my robes.

"Oh, yes, you do, Draco, you'll want to see your friends and professors," she says, putting on an airy facade. "And you'll want to go to the Yule Ball - what with the Triwizard Tournament and all." When told of the Tournament, I had been devastated; it took the place of Quidditch, my safe haven in the Slytherin house.

"What friends?" I say, pawing her away. "Why would I want to go to a ball?" She purses her lips, her eyes filling with tears. I try to take it back. "I mean, I - "

"Draco," she says softly, "please get on that train. Please enjoy your year and - " She breaks off. "And please don't hate your father."

"A little late for that," I murmur. I make for the train, but she catches my shoulder.

"Draco - " I turn back, expecting more advice or a lecture. My mother gives a watery smile, and she says, "Please don't hate him. He has never deserved it. He loves you." I force a smile and pat her hand encouragingly.

"Then you can tell him I said goodbye." 

The train pulls away, and for the first time in four years I look back. My mother stands in the steam, waving her hanky as she cries, a brave smile pinned to her face.

+ Fifth Year +

I have not spoken to my father in over a year, so it is a great surprise that he is asking if I would like to take a trip to London. In my shock, I agree to it, and the next thing I know, I'm sitting on the train to London, talking to my father as though we've never been distant.

He tells me that he's a Death Eater, as though I haven't figured it out, and says, "We're going to a meeting of the Dark Lord's tonight." I gaze out the window, unsure of how to react. Hastily he adds that I don't have to return to the Dark Lord if I don't wish to. I _don't _wish to, but I look at him skeptically.

"But you aren't expecting me to turn it away, are you?"

"I have no expectations, Draco," he stammers, an unconvincing lie. "The choice is completely up to you - and don't let anyone else influence you, either. It's got to be your own decision." I nod knowingly and turn back to the window. I have a feeling he's going to try his hardest to influence me to join.

"How did you decide to become a Death Eater?" He smiles, though his smile is pinched and forced. He doesn't answer, so I add, "How could you trust the others enough to not turn you in to the Ministry?"

"You can never trust too much or too little. Never trust a man until you know he will not betray you, and never trust anyone enough to tell him your true intentions until you know he'll keep the business your own." It's the same lesson he always teaches me. I study his face; he's more nervous about this trip than I am. I wonder if he knows something I don't.

"Draco," he asks suddenly, "do you trust me?" 

"Sometimes more than others," I say carefully, which is untrue; I've never trusted him. Not with the way he treats my mother. He nods and leans back in his seat.

"And when you do trust me, why?"

Humoring him, my answer reflects the lesson he has just reviewed with me. "Because you leave my business to me. You know how to keep a secret."

"As well I should." 

I don't know how to interpret this, but the remainder of the train ride is filled with a cautious silence. The meeting of the Death Eaters is as uneventful; but it makes me realize that the last thing I want to be is loyal to the Dark Lord.

+ Sixth Year +

Returning to Hogwarts after Christmas is a miracle in itself. The school is so welcoming, despite the treacherous students within, and I no longer have anything to hide.

My father is responsible for my joining the Death Eaters for what must be a record for the shortest period of loyalty to the Dark Lord. He is responsible for my suicidal tendencies this fall. He is responsible for my freedom.

I study my arm in the common room. Smooth, pale skin, perfectly unbroken and unscarred, gazes back at me, and I'm near tears. The Dark Mark, over holidays, was removed, and I will never again be considered a Death Eater.

For the first time in my life, I love my father.

+

Thank you A-Chan and hesperos. 

+

All characters used in this piece of fiction are property of J.K. Rowling and copyright Warner Brothers.

+

Song lyrics are property of Papa Roach and copyright Viva La Cucaracha Music.

+

Chapter Four coming soon to a fan fiction archive near you.


	4. Dead Cell

+

+ Infest: A Harry Potter Song Fic by Canarde +

+

+ Chapter Four: Dead Cell +

+

Author's Note: I really dislike how this turned out, so I'll probably rewrite it sometime. I had to finish it to get on with the other chapters, because I really have been wanting to write Chapter Five (my favorite song on the Infest album). But this will do for the time being ... unless the reviews are phenomenal, and then perhaps I'll leave it.

+

"Born with no soul, lack of control,

Cut from the mold of the anti-social,

Plug them in and turn them on,

Process the data, make yourself the bomb.

What is your target, what is your reason?

Do you have emotions, is your heart freezing?

Seizing this opportunity to speak.

+ + +

"Believe what is the root of the word,

Out comes lie when it's cut into thirds.

I don't believe what my eyes behold, no;

I don't believe what my ears are told, no;

Seizing this opportunity to speak.

I'm saying something."

+

Draco Malfoy sat in a corner of the Slytherin common room, a random text open in his lap. But he wasn't reading the words in the book, nor was he writing on the roll of parchment he had on the table beside his green leather armchair. He wasn't worrying about the end of term exams, only a week away, or the dark-haired, pug-nosed girl crossing the room toward him, her eyes shining with admiration.

He was thinking about a boy with dark hair and crimson eyes; he was thinking about Lord Voldemort. Or, more accurately, Draco was thinking about a boy called Tom Marvolo Riddle, the Slytherin Heir and former student at Hogwarts, and was so lost in thought that he did not hear the pug-nosed girl approaching. 

Her cold hands slipped over his eyes, and he jumped; she murmured, "Guess who?" into his ear and he relaxed fractionally.

"Pansy," he said flatly. "Go away. I'm reading our Potions lesson, and - "

"You can't be reading the Potions lesson." She plucked the book from his hands, her tone of voice disbelieving and matter-of-fact, and closed it with a sick thud of its dusty covers. 

"What?" he said, reaching out for his book, "Of course I am. Give it here, Pansy, I - "

"Draco, this - " She held out the text, showing him the cover. "This is your Divination book." Draco snatched the book from her and cast a dark glare at her in the flickering silver firelight.

"I _said _I was reading the Divination lesson," he said sharply. "Leave me alone." 

One cold finger trailed slowly over his neck and cheek as the girl leaned close, her voice a dull purr as she breathed, "You're so cute when you're angry."

Livid, Draco collected his things quickly and swept past Pansy, who had an odd, bemused look on her face; he ignored the greetings from his inherited goons as he entered the room and dropped the lot into the open trunk at the foot of his bed. Then he turned to the goons, who watched him with the same bemused look in their dense faces as Pansy had worn. 

And suddenly he noticed the handsome face of Blaise Zabini, who was watching the scene with an amused expression lighting his dark eyes. Zabini was very British; he was tall and lanky and had dark eyes and swore a lot. He nipped the cigarettes from his mother's purse and drank liquor stolen from his father's locked cabinet because his father was usually too drunk to care or even notice it had gone missing. 

Draco scowled at him and stalked out of the dormitory. 

+

He was skipping stones over the lake. Each stone was flat and selected specially, and the inky water drank them up thirstily into its fathomless depths. Despite the ripples and splashes from the stones, the world was silent; even the wind tousling his usually perfect hair made no noise.

"What on earth was that all about, Malfoy?" He glanced over his shoulder, appearing less startled than he was, to see the dark, lanky figure of Zabini silhouetted against the flickering torchlight from the castle and its picture-perfect windows.

"What was what about?" He lobbed another stone across the lake, and it skipped twice before sinking below the gently lapping waves.

Zabini sauntered over and took a stone from him, imitating his action lucidly. His stone was more successful, disappearing into the black of the lake. 

Then Zabini looked at him, his dark eyes scrutinizing and harsh, before saying, "Your father has you on Voldemort's list, you know. You'll be the first of us to be Marked." 

Draco shuddered and shrugged, taking up another stone and letting it sail over the lake. Zabini grabbed his hand as he chose another stone, his fingers pressing the pale flesh, his eyes penetrating his muddled thoughts.

"You don't want to be, do you?" Draco tried to shrug him off, but Zabini's hand held fast.

"Don't want to be what?"

"_Marked_."

Finally Draco managed to release himself of Zabini's hold, and he turned away sharply, blinking rapidly against what he told himself were tears from the harsh wind. Zabini followed closely, ignoring all personal boundaries and social regards.

"You don't want to be like him, do you?"

"Voldemort?"

"No -- your father."

Draco pulled in a sharp breath, and his step quickened as he made his way over the frozen ground. Zabini was at his heel, so close that Draco could feel his breath on his neck. The blond boy stopped abruptly, turning so that his back was eternally to Zabini, who seemed to be reading his thoughts, he stopped so quickly.

"I would give anything to have a father who would get himself killed to see me be a part of something as great as this," said Zabini. 

"Great? This is a terrible thing to want to be a part of." Draco caught sight of Zabini's uneven smile and his dark eyes glisten with tears before the tall boy blinked.

"But it would mean being a part of something, wouldn't it?"

Disgust was apparent in Draco's voice when he said, "Then you can take it." 

"If I could, I would," Zabini spat. "A father, a vault full of Galleons at Gringotts; it's more than I've got at this point."

Draco muttered, "Load of bullshit," and stalked off toward the castle, his shadow shifting eerily in the torchlight. Zabini's pained expression melted instantly and was replaced with a cruel sneer that Draco didn't see.

"He's so spoiled he doesn't even realize his father might as well be the Dark Lord, and he doesn't use it to his advantage."

+

It was a Hogsmeade weekend, and Draco was staying in his dormitory.

Crabbe and Goyle had gone off to the tiny wizarding village, as had Pansy and Zabini. On his bed, Draco's texts and rolls of parchment lay out, a quill and stoppered bottle of ink sitting prettily on his night table; but Draco was not with them. He was sitting on his dresser, which he had cleared by spilling everything onto the cold stone floor below, and staring through the high window.

A dry snow was flurrying through the grey skies and frozen earth, and delicate patterns of frost had been traced over the glass of the window in the night. Draco followed the swirls and creeping vines of white with his eyes, his breath fogging the glass slightly he leaned so close to the window.

The door creaked, and Draco snapped his gaze to the doorway.

"You're supposed to be in Hogsmeade."

Lanky Blaise Zabini leaned against the frame of the door, his penetrating gaze fixed, unblinking, on Draco. His eyes were red-rimmed and his skin pale as he slunk across the room to the dresser on which Draco sat. 

"What they don't know can't possibly hurt them, can it?" He raised an eyebrow and said, "Come down here, Draco."

The blond boy hesitated a moment. No one had called him by his first name in years. To his mother he was, "Darling," to his father, "Son," and to everyone here at Hogwarts he was, "Malfoy." Just Malfoy. Nothing more. 

Zabini's dark eyes were pleading, so he slid from the dresser in a single, flawless movement.

"Alright, now what's this -- "

He was caught up in Zabini's arms before he could realize it, his breath taken from his mouth by a pair of warm lips against his own. It was all so startling, all he could do was fall into Blaise Zabini and wonder how long it had been since he had last been wanted, though he understood quite well that he knew only a third of the truth about Zabini and even less about his motives.

+

Zabini slipped through the corridors, past dungeons, and around corners. His dark hair was falling over his dark eyes, under which dark circles were beginning to form. And in his mind, dark thoughts formed of Dark Lords and dark places he could be great, including the dark bedroom of Draco Malfoy, who presently slept peacefully on through the dark night.

When he came to a dark corridor hidden by a dark tapestry, Zabini took it, and he slipped between dark shadows on his way to becoming the worst thing to have ever happened to the Dark Lord Voldemort, who regarded Zabini as just another dark student in the dark house of Hogwarts to be so easily manipulated to do his bidding.

But now that Zabini had the child of Voldemort's most respected Death Eater under his dark command, he would be respected greatly. If he was not, dark things would happen to the pale boy whose future had been darkened from his birth under a dark name.

As he slipped into the silvery moonlight, Zabini's dark thoughts took a sudden turn, and his face twisted into a dark grin; he was well on his way to becoming the next Tom Marvolo Riddle.

However, unlike Riddle, he would succeed in the end.

+

Thank you.

+

All characters used in this piece of fiction are property of J.K. Rowling and copyright Warner Brothers.

+

Song lyrics are property of Papa Roach and copyright Viva La Cucaracha Music.

+

Chapter Five coming soon to a fan fiction archive near you.


	5. Between Angels and Insects

+

+ Infest: A Harry Potter Song Fic by Canarde +

+

+ Chapter Five: Between Angels and Insects +

+

"It's too bad this world is based on greed.

Step back and see, and stop thinking about yourself;

Start thinking about:

There's no money, there's no possession,

Only obsession; I don't need that shit.

Take my money, take my possession,

Take my obsession; I don't need that shit.

'Cause everything is nothing,

And emptiness is in everything.

This reality is just a fucked-up dream.

With the flesh and blood

That you call your soul,

Flip it inside out, it's a big, black hole.

Take your money, burn it up like an asteroid.

Possessions, they are never going to fill the void;

Take it away and learn the best lesson:

The heart, the soul, the life, the passion.

Present yourself, press your clothes,

Comb your hair and clock in.

You just can't win, you just can't win;

The things you own own you."

+

"Why are you doing this?"

Draco propped himself up on one elbow, a winningly bemused smile pinned carefully into place. "What am I doing, love?"

Ron tugged his faded robes back over his shoulders and sighed, saying, "_This_," and gesturing grandly over the two of them in the grass, the blanket below them, the shadows cast by a surprisingly calm Whomping Willow which hid them from the castle and prying eyes.

When Draco's puzzled expression did not melt into a knowledgeable smile, Ron said, "All of this. Why are you spending your free hours with a sworn enemy of over six years?"

"Well," said Draco slowly, "why not?"

Despite Draco's charming smile, Ron continued to press his inquiry. "Is it to rebel against your father?"

And the charming smile disappeared, his eyes hardening as he frowned. He reassured the redhead that it was not his father, quickly pulling a humorous face, adding, "If I wanted to rebel against Lucius, I'd bring you home to supper."

There was a long pause, in which Draco watched Ron think. The redhead had drawn his long legs up close to himself and was leaning on his knees, his hands pressing on his cheeks in a vain effort to remain upright. His usually cheerfully grey eyes were almost tormented with thought.

Finally, Draco said, "Look, Ron, if you want to know why I keep coming back in spite of your persistence that the Weasley and Malfoy names shouldn't mix, I'll give you a reason." He raised his eyebrows innocently while adding, "It'll all be bullshit, but it'll be a reason ... "

He inched closer to Ron, his hand trailing over the shoulder of the redhead's robes before sliding inside the collar. Ron pulled closer instinctively, but when Draco kissed his neck, he stiffened. Draco sighed and sat back, leaning on his hands stretched out behind him.

"It's because of your money," he said, his eyes shining with mirth. "One of these days I'll be off with all of your riches, and you won't have heard a peep from me ... I'll have disappeared before you know I've gone."

Ron tugged at his robe, buttoning the top few buttons which Draco had undone, and turned a cold shoulder on the blond. His eyes were blazing.

"Laugh all you want, Malfoy, but one of these days you might wake up and realize that you're nothing without your money."

After a slight pause, Draco managed a wounded smile and said softly, "You called me Malfoy, Ron."

"So," Ron grunted, searching the wrinkled folds of the blanket for his wand. 

"You haven't called me Malfoy since -- "

"Since this mess began, eh?" the redhead supplied when the blond faltered. Draco nodded innocently. "Because it is a mess, really. All of this. A mistake."

"Mistake?" Draco said, his voice withering under the hard glare of his freckled companion. Ron jerked himself to his feet, his wand held at an awkward angle in his hand, and stepped back.

"You heard me, Mal- -- " But the look in Draco's eyes was too much, and Ron hesitated, mumbling, "Draco." He sighed and continued, "A mistake. I never should have -- " Again, he stopped himself, winced, and avoided looking at Draco. "I never should have let you buy me."

"Buy you," Draco laughed in disbelief, though his tone lacked humor. "In what way did I buy you?"

"The new wand," Ron said, ticking his list off on his long fingers, "the textbooks at the start of the year, the ice cream in Hogsmeade, the Butterbeers and Drooble's Best and Every Flavor Beans -- Not to mention the broomstick and Quidditch supplies ... " 

Draco, too, had gotten to his feet, clutching his hands as though he was holding himself back from physically keeping Ron from leaving. 

"I didn't buy you -- "

"You lured me with the possibility of being wealthy, Draco. Intentionally or not, I don't really care, and it doesn't really matter." 

Draco looked presently as though he was close to crying, and Ron again sighed, crossing the distance between them and pulling him into his arms.

"I-I didn't mean ... "

"I know," said Ron, "neither did your father, I think."

+

They would be leaving Hogwarts tomorrow, and Ron had refused the invitation to stay at the Malfoy Manor at all during the holidays. 

"But," he said, when Draco pouted convincingly, "you are welcome to visit me at the Burrow. My mum would love you -- you pick up your dirty knickers on a regular basis."

At this, Draco laughed, but couldn't help wondering aloud, "What's the difference between the Manor and the Burrow?"

Ron grinned, his freckled face creasing merrily. 

"Well," he pointed out, "at the Manor, I'll be just another Weasley, but at the Burrow, you would be, too."

+

Thank you, Hopper. Despite your grumpiness, you are a Godsend.

And thank you, Heidi, whose paranoia of losing friends is endearing and strangely flattering, and Heidi, who made me realize how wonderful my own friends are.

+

All characters used in this piece of fiction are property of J.K. Rowling and copyright Warner Brothers.

+

Song lyrics are property of Papa Roach and copyright Viva La Cucaracha Music.

+

Chapter Six coming soon to a fan fiction archive near you.


	6. Blood Brothers

+

+ Infest: A Harry Potter Song Fic by Canarde +

+

+ Chapter Six: Blood Brothers +

+

"Corruption and abuse, the salesmen of our blood

For the public's craving, existence in the dark.

It's our nature to destroy ourselves;

It's our nature to kill ourselves.

It's our nature to kill each other;

It's our nature to kill, kill, kill.

+ + +

"It was a dream and then it hit me, reality struck,

And now my life is all shifty and it all moves fast ...

In respect to the family in times of our insanity

And through the words of our profanity,

I describe our dysfunctional family.

Blood Brothers keep it real to the end,

Deeper than the thoughts you think, not a trend."

+

The Marking ceremony has always taken place in a chamber which lies deep underneath the peaceful town of Hogsmeade. Every year, in the dead of winter, Death Eaters from across the globe Apparate into a series of round tunnels which lead to the large, circular chamber.

The chamber itself is primitive, its walls painted in the Ancient Languages and shining with moisture from the stalactites hanging from the rough ceiling. In the center of the chamber, a pristine pool of water lies, bottomless and a deep, intangible blue. Torches hang every few meters on the wall, their licking flames magicked to appear a serpentine emerald rivaling the sleek scales of the Dark Lord's beloved Nagini. To one end of the chamber, an elaborately carved armchair is set back in an alcove, and a crudely carved hearth lies before it, a green flame flickering within which never dies.

Each year, two new Death Eaters are Marked. Each pair is perfectly complimentary. Each pair is selected by the Dark Lord himself; each pair is bound to protect one another until death. They are what Voldemort (and, consequently, every Death Eater) calls Blood Brothers. If a Death Eater is betrayed by his Blood Brother, he is avenged by Voldemort himself.

Tonight, Death Eaters of the world come together to witness the Marking of two very special Blood Brothers, two boys fated to be so great that neither succeeds, two young men aiming to prove themselves worthy of greatness.

One, dark and lanky, is seeking the greatness sought so many years ago by Tom Marvolo Riddle. He is ruthless and cruel, able to bend any wizard to his whim. Festering within him for many years now has been the hate for his father, a Muggle-born wizard with no appreciation for his own son, and a resentment of his mother, who only as been around enough to see him off to school in the fall and home again in the spring. Secretive and brooding, he will stop at nothing to acheive greatness.

The second, pale and blond, is seeking only the approval of his father. He is determined and unwilling to betray his morals. His negligant father and narcissistic mother have driven him to desire attention, and under the Dark Lord's watchful eye, he shall receive the recognition he deserves.

+

The chamber had been slowly filling with cloaked, masked wizards for nearly ten minutes when it became full to overflowing. An aura of evil had slowly filled the chamber with them, and it was not long before a single drum stung the silence into submission. Each beat was left to ring through the caves, and as it sounded, a silent line of cloaked wizards followed an emerald snake into the chamber.

Four Death Eaters, each carrying himself with pride and dignity and respect for the fifith to enter, positioned themselves on either side of the elegant throne. The fifth, cloaked in blood red robes which contradicted the suffocating black of the rest, slid into the chamber and stood facing the licking green flames, his back to the throne. The drum became suddenly silent, and two smaller cloaked figures entered from the tunnels on the side of the chamber opposing the cloak of red.

"Enter if you can prove your loyalty to the Dark Lord Voldemort," hissed a cold voice from beneath the hood of the figure in red. A shiver swept through the chamber, and the two new cloaks made their way slowly through the ranks of Death Eaters, whose heads bowed in respect of the Dark Lord.

On either side of the hearth, the smaller figures stopped, and the figure in red nodded once to the Death Eater on his right. The Death Eater stepped forward, facing the two boys, and waved a gloved hand, bidding them to kneel on the cold earthern floor.

As he stepped aside, the figure in red nodded to the Death Eater on his left, who stepped forward and took a small, leather-bound book from the pockets of his shadowy robes.

"As a Death Eater you will be considered an adult, loyal to the Dark Lord for all eternity. You are capable of everything the Lord requests of you, and by the same consideration you are not worthy of that which the Lord does not request of you. By accepting the Mark of the Dark Lord tonight you are vowing to be ever loyal to Lord Voldemort alone, and betrayal is punishable as the Lord sees fit. If truly you believe the Dark Lord to be the true ruler of the world, you will step forward now." 

Two cloaked, masked figures to either side of the hearth stepped forward, and immediately the two nearest Death Eaters stepped forward as well, taking them by their arms and holding them in place.

"Then as the Dark Lord sees appropriate, may these two young wizards from this day forth be known for their loyalty to the Dark Lord and their skill in the Dark Arts. May they forever be known as Death Eaters, and may their families fear and respect them as they fear and respect the Dark Lord Voldemort.

"Present yourself for the Marking."

The cloaks by the hearth held up their arms, allowing the sleeves of their robes to fall beneath their elbows. The Death Eaters holding them in place tightened their grip, and the first Death Eater stepped forward again. He took from thin air a long, thin pole of iron, its end forming a brand in the shape of a skull and snake intertwined in malevolence.

"In receiving the Mark of the Dark Lord Voldemort, you will forever be reminded of your loyalty to him and to your Brother in Blood who now stands beside you."

With this, the first Death Eater took the brand, which he had been momentarily holding in the emerald flames, and pressed its shaped end into the inner left wrist of each new Death Eater. The first boy grunted as the iron seared his flesh, but the second, the paler of the two, refused to even flinch.

There was an almost jovial note in the speaking Death Eater's voice as he said, "You are hereby a Death Eater and loyal to the Dark Lord and the Dark Lord only. Congratulations."

+

Sitting on the eathern floor of the chamber no more than an hour later, a blond sixteen-year-old boy examined the burning flesh of his left wrist. The Mark was blocky and obscure; the snake curled out of a grinning skull which seemed to mock him, their outlines charred and black.

The blond boy's Blood Brother, dark and lanky, came into the chamber in silence, his hands buried in the pockets of his robes. He joined the blond on the ground, his dark eyes momentarily studying the Mark before roving over the blond's pale face.

"Welcome to the Death Eaters, Draco." The blond slid his sleeve over the Mark, his eyes meeting the hungry gaze of his Brother. 

"We're marked for life, now," Draco said slowly, his fingertips brushing over his covered wrist.

"Isn't it marvelous?"

Indifferent, Draco shrugged, his eyes leaving the intense gaze of the darker boy, whose hand found Draco's in the folds of their cloaks and robes.

"We're bound to one another until death." Draco nodded numbly. "We're not allowed to betray one another." The darker boy sighed happily, his thumb rubbing Draco's hand lethargically. "It's a bit like we're married, then."

"So it seems, yes."

"Then it _is_ marvelous," he whispered.

His lips found Draco's before the blond could answer or object, and they celebrated their Marking as two sixteen-year-olds in love should.

+

It was well after midnight when Draco came into the dormitory. He had hoped that the others would have been sleeping, but when his eyes found the bed beside his own empty, he knew his hopes and his reality were not congruant.

In spite of the absense of his Blood Brother, Draco dressed in his pajamas and turned down his bedspread quickly in a series of movements so well-rehearsed they were second nature. But as he settled into his pillow, he was joined by the lanky figure of Blaise Zabini, and he swore under his breath.

"We're a bit late this evening, Draco," Zabini murmured, his arms snaking around the blond's thin waist. "We weren't in our bed when Snape came through to see our lights were out." His hold tightened around Draco, but his intentions were unclear as he nuzzled into the blond hair at the base of Draco's neck. "We should consider ourselves very lucky that our Brother was here to omit certain truths to the Potions master, eh?"

"Thank you, Blaise," Draco whispered, too aware of Zabini's wandering hands and betraying body. "It means a lot that you should -- " A cold hand covered Draco's mouth suddenly.

"Never mind all that." He pressed even closer, and Draco shivered involuntarily as Zabini began to kiss his neck gently. "I would rather hear about where you've been all night."

When Draco didn't answer, Zabini somehow managed to flip him silently, and now Draco faced him, his gaze not meeting that of his Brother.

"Now, Draco, I _know _you weren't out with any girls," he said, suddenly pressing his waist to Draco's. "Nor were you out on a mission for the Dark Lord." His mouth raked across Draco's, hungry and needing, one hand dragging along his side while the other held him in place. "And you certainly weren't having tea with your father ... So the question remains: Where were you tonight?"

Across the room, either Crabbe or Goyle snorted loudly in his sleep, giving Draco a moment to collect an answer while Zabini panicked, pulling away slightly. Moments later, Draco was still without an answer, and Zabini's breath was once again mixing with the blond's as he kissed him roughly once more.

"I claim insomnia. Let's forget the entire thing in favor of," he thrust towards Zabini, who responded with an eager light in his eyes, "more _important _things?"

"This inquiry is postponed until tomorrow morning," the dark boy agreed, hardly able to contain himself, "so that you can show me what's more important that a real answer to my question."

+

All characters used in this piece of fiction are property of J.K. Rowling and copyright Warner Brothers.

+

Song lyrics are property of Papa Roach and copyright Viva La Cucaracha Music.

+

Chapter Seven coming soon to a fan fiction archive near you.


	7. Revenge

+

+ Infest: A Harry Potter Song Fic by Canarde +

+

+ Chapter Seven: Revenge +

+

"Chaos is what she saw in the mirror;

Scared of herself and the power that was in her.

It took over and weighed heavily 

On her shoulders.

Militant insanity is now

What controlled her.

It's alright, we're in love,

Can't live with or without.

Kill it before it reaches you."

+

"It was a mercy killing," he said, and he disappeared into the trees.

Draco stood beside the broken body lying at his feet, the blood, still warm, spilling from the knife wounds below the ribs and near the collarbone and along the spine. Zabini had been so calm when this intruder had burst in on them, his knife -- Draco's knife, actually -- Lucius' knife -- stolen for this exact purpose but never used before tonight -- with the flick of the wrist had taken such an innocent life.

They had been Marked less than a week before this night, and there had not been a moment when Draco had been allowed from Zabini's sight. They had eaten together, slept together, bathed together, and now, they had killed together.

"He was innocent," Draco said, breaking through the foliage behind the lanky boy. Zabini shrugged, handing him the sleek blade. The silver moonlight was heavy in the air and glinted through the pale pommel stone on the knife's handel; Draco suddenly wished he was inside the castle, in his bed in the dormitory, with Ron curled up beside --

"Oi! Hold on a moment." 

Draco stopped abruptly, his thoughts shattered. As Zabini listened, his dark eyes searching the shadowed trees around them, Draco tucked the knife into his robes.

It was close to dawn before the pair of them had returned to the clearing beside Hagrid's crumbling cabin, and Draco's very bones ached.

"Back there," he said quietly, reaching out for Zabini's hand. "He was innocent; you killed him for no reason. He only -- "

"Draco," said Zabini, puzzled but amused, "he was a centaur."

Horrified, Draco gasped, "But it was a life taken! How can you possibly live with yourself after committing murder?"

Zabini wrapped himself around Draco, guarding him against the biting wind of the morning, and buried his long nose in Draco's platinum hair.

"We vowed loyalty to the Dark Lord," he said. "Killing is involved sometimes -- and a centaur isn't worth more than, well," he glanced toward the cabin, "that excuse for a professor, Hagrid."

Draco felt very cold. He had never gotten along with the groundskeeper, but he understood that Hagrid was capable of emotions, as the centaur had been. 

"Now, forget about it all, and let's go to breakfast, shall we?" The blond followed numbly, the indifferently cruel glint in Zabini's eye haunting him.

+

The mirror reflected what Draco felt; a gaunt, pale boy with no soul behind his eyes. In place of a soul, his eyes held a dark swirl of confused chaos where he had once seen a calm, arrogant heir to the Malfoy wealth. But he no longer felt a Malfoy, even now that his father had risked his life in asking Voldemort for freedom from the Death Eaters.

In fact, Draco felt even less a Malfoy now that they were not involved with Voldemort. His entire life he had known of their strong connection and loyalty to the Dark Lord; now that bond had been broken, and he felt empty, betrayed, with no sense of right or wrong. Nothing mattered now that he didn't know what he was fated to become.

Very suddenly he felt a boiling rage toward Zabini, who had caused the deaths of at least three souls, who had such an obsession with being Lord Voldemort, who was constantly pressing Draco to be with him at every moment of the day. 

Draco violently lashed out at the mirror, throwing a fist into the glass, which spider-webbed and shattered. Oblivious to his bleeding knuckles, he began tearing over the countertops, smashing everything in sight against the impersonal stone floors and walls. When the bathroom had been reduced to empty ruins, Draco stormed into the dormitory, throwing a fist through a painting hanging on the wall.

He tore through the room, destroying not only his own things but also his roommates'. He ripped pages from books, snapped his wand in half, shredded bedspreads and pillows and curtains from the beds, and drapes from the windows near the ceiling. He took his father's knife to the mattresses and tore robes apart at their seams.

His fingers were battered and bleeding, but he did not hesitate until the door was flung open and Zabini swept into the room, his dark hair a mess in his worry.

"Draco," he said loudly, rushing to the blond's side. Draco threw a fist into Zabini's nose; Zabini yelped and grappled in trying to pin Draco's arms to his sides. The blond fought him, clawing at the dark boy fervently.

Zabini seemed nothing short of frantic as he pinned Draco to the ground, sitting on his chest and holding his hands. Eventually, the blond relaxed and closed his eyes, breathing heavily. 

"Draco," Zabini whispered, shifting ever so slightly and coming to lay on top of Draco, "I know we aren't bound as Brothers anymore." Though surprised, Draco remained silent and dormant. "But I do love you."

He was met by an almost inaudible grunt, but seemed content with this. His hands clutched at Draco's passionately, caressing the scrapes and splinters and bruises with a gentleness not quite like him.

"I can't live without you," he insisted, placing a kiss on Draco's slightly parted lips. At this, Draco sat up, ignoring Zabini's protests, and gazed at him with intensely silver eyes.

"And yet," he said calmly, "you can't seem to live with me, either."

+

All characters used in this piece of fiction are property of J.K. Rowling and copyright Warner Brothers.

+

Song lyrics are property of Papa Roach and copyright Viva La Cucaracha Music.

+

Chapter Eight coming soon to a fan fiction archive near you.


	8. Snakes

+

+ Infest: A Harry Potter Song Fic by Canarde +

+

+ Chapter Eight: Snakes +

+

"I got a problem with the snakes

That are crawling

Through my area when the darkness has fallen.

Momma told me that they love to bite;

They'll stab you in the back,

No shame that's right.

I keep my distance 'cause

They're making me crazy

And stealing from me

+ + +

"Do you know how it feels to be bit 

In the neck by the snake that kills?

Do you know how it feels to be stabbed

In the back, then watch the blood spill?

I don't like how it feels, check it --

Do you know how it feels to be stabbed

In the back, then watch the blood spill?"

+

Flesh, slick with sweat and desire, pressing so close it may as well have been one body instead of two.

Breaths, heavy with exertion and passion, panting in a rhythm designed by the Creator for the two of them alone.

Limbs, tangled with urgancy and hope, sliding like molten silver in the moonlight and cool breeze of a midnight in May.

And into the balmy evening, against the pressing darkness of the shadowed wood nearby, through the vales and mountains surrounding, four words echoed in a distant whisper: "Do you love me?"

Only one syllable had need to be said, and only one word was moaned into a crevace of a soft and supple neck: "Forever."

+

As he sat through History of Magic, tapping a near-dry quill against a blank roll of parchment while Professor Binns droned on about Mermish colonies in the Atlantic, Draco watched everyone's golden boy leaning lazily against his hand. The focus of Draco's attention was prodded by the mudblood, who laughed brightly as the boy swatted at her hand playfully. Draco boiled for a moment, instantly caught himself and sighed inwardly. When he looked back at the mudblood and the world's golden boy, he eyed the pair disdainfully. 

Draco scowled deeply into his own parchment and quill, and almost at once the rough edge of a torn bit of parchment scraped over the nape of his neck. With an upward sigh, he reached back and took the hastily folded note from Parkinson, who leaned back in her seat as though testing his reaction to her looping scrawl: _I want to kick him, too. Do you think Binns would mind?_

Without missing a beat, Draco replied in his signature silver ink: _More than you care to test, I'm sure. We'll get him later; meet me at the Baroness after class, and we'll make plans for this atfernoon's Potions lesson_; though, in his mind, he altered Parkinson's 'kick' to read 'kiss' and smiled secretively to himself_._

He passed the note back and took the delicate shiver of a fingernail trailed across his neck to mean that she would meet him in the hidden alcove behind a molding statue of the Bloody Baron's late wife, who looked quite as sour and melancholy as the Baron himself often was. 

Professor Binns, as usual, lost track of time; but, as merely a shade of himself, it was expected that his sense of time was not as accurate as most other professors. It was well after the hour that the mudblood finally caught his attention by slamming the classroom door from her seat across the room, and Binns threatened to continue the lesson in the following week, much to the chagrin of most of the class.

As Draco swept out of the room flanked by Crabbe and Goyle, who sported twin menacing sneers which rivaled even his perfected, haughty smirk, Parkinson flounced along after, the silver tassels on her bag swinging innocently with her staged curls. 

"Afternoon, Parkinson," he said casually as she passed and glanced over her shoulder with a sparkling and cunning smile.

"See you after Herbology, Draco," she purred, turning a corner and disappearing down a rickety and splintering staircase which lead directly to the Slytherin dungeons. And once she was out of sight, Draco put out his lip slightly, discouraged by her willingness to do harm to the golden boy.

"Goyle," Draco said sharply, and the thug to his left grunted, "Crabbe, get on down to the greenhouses, I have something to which I must attend." They slouched off in the direction of the well-kept greenhouses, and Draco shuddered for a moment as he absently watched them go. 

He turned to a stair cut into the marble behind a rotting tapestry, but abruptly knocked into the sharp elbow of a passerby. Ever gracious by his father's teaching, he began to apologize, and stopped short when he found himself speaking to a freckled, long-nosed redhead who wore a scowl far surpassing his own. 

"Watch it, Weasley," he said, quite more casually and calmly than he would have liked. "You wouldn't have enough Galleons in Gringotts to pay for these robes if you scuffed them -- and my shoes cost more than your entire family is worth." The redhead's grey eyes blazed, and he muttered an angry reply under his breath, to which Draco chuckled, turning on his heel as the pale shade of Nicolas de Mimsy-Porpington glided by, pearly-white and casting a reprimanding stare at him through vacant eyes.

"You'll get yours, you know, Malfoy, and when you do, I'll be watching! I'll be doubled over in laughter when you get your own!"

Draco dismissed him entirely and strolled casually down a narrow corridor leading to a sweeping hidden marble staircase. In the end, he appeared right in front of the molding statue of the Baroness, and upon glancing down the corridor, he saw that Parkinson was attempting a seductive stroll across the chipping flagstones of the floor. Her shoes clacked loudly, and the tassles on her bag swayed jovially; but there was a dangerous and malicious edge to her dull grey eyes and cheerful voice which put Draco in a more defensive mood than he usually should have been.

Parkinson came to a stop in front of him and leaned slightly to one side in an attempt to appear more vuluptuous and curved; her knee was bent slightly, her head tipped to one side as she curled a stray lock of hair around a manicured nail.

"Good morning, Draco," she purred, eyeing him with a hunger he had only seen once before, in the emerald eyes of his newest infatuation. "And after the night you've had, I'm sure it must be a _good _morning."

"Why, Parkinson, what are you implying?"

She pounced and pinned him to the wall in a swift movement Draco could have avoided had he feared for his safety. However, he knew something Parkinson did not know he did: she would never hurt him -- not even, Draco was sure, if the Dark Lord himself gave her the order.

Her lips were scented with lip gloss, her hair brushing the side of his sharp nose with a tickling innocence in its pristine curl; her voice was less kind now that only the two of them were able to hear it. The voice was a gutteral but definately feminine growl, and her nails pressed into the flesh of his shoulder and of his waist, her breath sweet against his cheek as she watched him through the corner of her eye.

"I couldn't sleep last night, Malfoy -- I heard you leaving your dormitory at an hour of which Filch would certainly not have approved. I won't lie to you ... I was curious as to what exactly you were slipping out so carfully to do."

Draco opened his mouth as if to object, and she kneed him carefully in his thigh. Taking the hint, he snapped his mouth shut, biting his lip to ensure his own silence.

"I saw you meeting him; I saw the two of you slipping away through the shadows. Where did you go with him, Malfoy? Where would you have gone with Harry Potter in the silent hours of the night?"

"Potter and I -- "

"No," she snapped, letting up slightly and clapping a hand over Draco's pale lips. "Don't answer. I don't want to hear the words leave you, nor do I want to guess -- the both of us know what you were up to."

She was breathing heavily and seemed pained to be saying these things to him. Hesitantly, she glanced over her shoulder. Then, she leaned close again, her arm pressing almost dangerously across his throat, her hand carressing his shoulder.

"I'll tell you what, Malfoy. Ensure me a spot with Voldermort, and I won't -- "

"Parkinson, I'm not affilliated with anything of that ... persuasion ... anymore."

A long moment passed before either of them said anything. Finally, Parkinson stepped back, completely abandoning her threat on Draco's throat. She smiled sweetly and flipped her hair.

"Ensure me a position in Voldemort's inner circle," she said, "or perhaps more than just the three of us will know about your excursions with the Potter boy."

+

Lucius - 

I recently have found myself in a precarious situation; the two options are public humiliation of the Malfoy name, or reassociating myself with the Death Eaters and Dark Lord. 

I understand and appreciate that you have risked yourself for me several times already with the Dark Lord, and I come to you to request one more rather large favor. If you are willing to aid me with this, I would be forever in your debt. Owl me at once regardless of what your reply may contain.

I could not possibly ask for a more sacrificing father.

- Draco

+

Parkinson cleverly flipped back the left sleeve of her robes during Snape's lesson while they stirred their assigned potion, and relief flooded Draco's veins. The Dark Mark had been burned into her immaculate skin, and from her wrist hung the silver crest of Voldemort's more trusted Death Eaters. 

"You're very welcome," Draco said darkly as she tilted her head up hautily and stirred the bubbling concoction in their cauldrom a little more absently.

Parkinson's eyes twinkled as she replied, "Believe me when I say that it's nothing." 

And she laughed, and Draco wondered whether he was more fool than he had yet to realize by trusting her ability to retain a secret of this magnitude.

+

Draco swept down the corridor, an airy June sun running golden highlights through his white-blond hair. As he rounded a corner, he was elbowed sharply, and he looked up to apologize. Even when he recognized the offender as a red-headed, long-nosed Weasley, he drawled an apology.

But there was an animosity in Weasley's eyes that Draco could never have ignored.

"Malfoy," growled Weasley, rolling up the sleeves of his robes casually. Panic settled into the pit of Draco's stomach, and he began to walk quickly away, his head turned on his shoulder to watch the enemy approaching.

He was cannoned into; he caught a glimpse of red hair and a speckling of freckles before being slammed into a wall. His skull cracked against the rough masonary with a hollow _thunk,_ and he winced as a sharp pain shot through his head and back and legs.

Weasley's large hands were balled up in fists, and hits were raining down on Draco, who scrambled to shield his face and head with outstretched arms.

But the redhead seemed to intent on proving something to Draco, because he seized Draco's robes by the collar and crashed him into the wall a second time, this time staring directly into Draco's eyes with a malevolant passion Draco had only seen before in the eyes of Death Eaters.

"Weasley, I don't want to -- "

"_Queer_," Weasley hissed through clenched teeth.

"What Parkinson says isn't always -- "

"It wasn't only Pansy, Malfoy."

Ron was flushed a hateful red, his freckles had nearly vanished. His grey eyes were smoldering with the embers of hatred far surpassing anything he had ever seen. Draco closed his eyes, praying to whatever deity would listen to a tainted soul, and relaxed into Weasley's hands as they suspended him several inches above the flagstone floors.

"Stay away from him."

"From whom, Weasley? Parkinson lies, she alwas has. Can't believe a thing -- "

Draco was silenced by another crack of his skull agaisnt the wall and the slicing pain which dove straight from one end of his spine to the other. He winced, and Weasley let up slightly out of pure pity.

"I talked to Harry," he breathed heavily through his nose, "and he doesn't deny it. He wants me to acknowlege -- support, even -- this ... this mistake ... But, damn it, how can I possibly? The years of spats should not revert to ... to -- galavanting in the woods, starkers ... Damn, Malfoy, why _him_?" 

Something in Weasley had changed, and now he looked down at Draco with a bemused, pleading mien in his eyes; Draco had to look away.

"Why him? Of all the boys at Hogwarts, why Harry?"

Draco willed himself to meet the redhead's gaze, and he said, levelly, "I can't change the fact that you and I could never be anything more than a primal folly." Weasley winced, and Draco was allowed to stand on his own feet once more.

He straightened his robes and smoothed back his hair.

"If you'll excuse me, I have a snake of which to rid my garden."

+

The Great Hall entertained the end-of-term banquet. Laughs, tears, gifts, lessons, and memories were exchanged and gathered by the collective student body. 

But amid the gaity and grievences, two bodies were missing from the four long tables in the hall; and only two in the crowds noticed they were gone.

The Gryffendor Tower entertained its own end-of-term banquet.

Ensnared in a tangle of bedclothes and passions, the world's golden boy and one former child of darkness poured out their every thought to one another without speaking a single word; and in the richness of one another, neither could have asked for anything more.

+

Thank you Mrs Martinez, for requiring me to show the world who I am, and for indirectly inspiring this chapter.

+

All characters used in this piece of fiction are property of J.K. Rowling and copyright Warner Brothers.

+

Song lyrics are property of Papa Roach and copyright Viva La Cucaracha Music.

+

Chapter Nine coming soon to a fan fiction archive near you.


	9. Never Enough

+

+ Infest: A Harry Potter Song Fic by Canarde +

+

+ Chapter Nine: Never Enough +

+

"Life's been sucked out of me,

And this routine's killing me.

I did it to myself, I said it would not be --

Somebody put me out of my misery.

Expression, stimulation, hallow sense of myself;

I did it to myself again.

Somebody put me in my place.

Never enough, never enough -- 

Do I deserve what I got?

Now everything's ok,

There's nothing wrong with me.

This seems unnatural to me,

I'd say in every way.

Somebody kick me in my face -- 

Now something's wrong with me:

I'm bleeding profusely and

Now this seems natural to me.

If I fuck up everyday,

Somebody put me in my place

Never enough, never enough -- 

Do I deserve what I got?

I feel as if I'm running back to where I started;

You ask what's wrong with me,

And I say nothing.

Is everything ok? Is something with me

Pushing and pulling, feelings eternal.

My heart is yours; I feel as if I'm running -- 

Life will knock me down."

+

24 February 1995

Why, they've been asking, why would a pretty, popular senior be dating such a shrew? Why would such a comely blond be wasting time with someone whose face is smashed to the point of resembling a small dog? 

Why, they've been asking, why would the soul heir of such a grand fortune be willing to be seen with a near-mudblood like that?

Why, they've been asking, why would Draco Malfoy be courting Pansy Parkinson? What could he possibly be needing -- wanting -- from her? What is he getting in return?

Why, I've been asking, would the entire student body of Hogwarts be so quick to gossip, so envious of Parkinson, so eager to smear the Malfoy name into the grime, and still be so willing to grovel in cowardice when I directly and boldly broach the subject? 

Apparently they believe what they shouldn't; apparently they believe that I actually enjoy her company, that I actually _want _to date her. Apparently, the student population of Hogwarts believes that I enjoy the presence of her kind.

Every one of their beliefs on subject, of course, is impossible. Not only do I loathe Parkinson, I loathe her entire gender. I do, however, adore her family, which is (despite all rumor) pureblood from the very powerful dark wizard Jeremiah Parkinson in the days of Salazar Slytherin to the newest infantile Thomasine Parkinson born barely a week ago to Pansy's very lucky cousin, Jeanne, who currently lives in Dublin with her husband Rudy. Her mother is a darling woman who would very nearly sell her soul for my wellbeing, which cannot be said for her own daughter.

In the Parkinson family, Pansy is looked upon as something of a black sheep -- what with her great interest in the Dark Arts and inspiration to one day join the Dark Lord. I suppose eventually she'll look to me for a good word with the Dark Lord, which I would never give anyone, as it would require me to actually converse with him, let alone Pansy, even if it would ensure her a tortured life and early death.

I refuse to be responsible for anyone's death, even someone who truly deserves it.

And apart from the Parkinson family, I adore her former sweethearts. Most of them were only in the relationship for the sex, which was hardly worth a full Galleon, though she was willing to engage at the whim of the fellow she was presently dating.

Personally I would not be able to agree with this, but only because my expertise in sexing women begins and ends with Pansy. I do know, however, that I definitely prefer screwing around with guys -- girls need to be reassured that the sex means something beyond physical gratification, and naturally that implies that they want us to lie to them. Much more realistic, the boys I've slept with all admit without shame or regret that the sex was merely sex, and nothing more was to be expected from the relationship.

One exception to this theory is Ron Weasley, but I believe that that can easily be explained by his childhood in the shadows and lack of monetary wealth.

But Parkinson, being a girl, is obsessed with emotions and feelings, and she has a constant need to prove that she isn't just seeing me for the things I buy her. I doubt she would believe me if I told her I didn't mind that her reason for dating me was exactly that, but I suppose it doesn't matter what her reasons are -- so long as she doesn't attempt to prove her attachment to me by putting it into clumsy words when we could be having a snog in the Astronomy tower or engaging in socially corrupt activities between her silken sheets.

The female need for reassurance is at the top of my list of reasons for loathing them; but closely following is the extraordinary sense of denial girls possess. No girl I have ever met has ever been entirely honest with me. They seem to feel that lying is a secret tool no man could ever hope to master, when, in fact, by omitting certain truths most men are more effective in their dishonesty. And instead of simply admitting their faults, they expect us to believe that they are entirely accepting towards themselves and all of their actions, and to lie with them until they've become perfect entities, and to never once question their lies even though, more often than not, they are screaming within to be questioned.

Because even though girls are immoral, they tend to have fairly accurate consciences.

Women are obsessive and compulsive. They must be right at all times, and they must be in control of every situation. In all my life I have not met one woman who has been indifferent to the choices made regarding their lives. Control freaks, every last one of them, which explains why Muggle women constantly complain that their husbands "hog" the remote control for the television set.

If they asked, I'm sure their husbands would hand them the remote without argument. This brings me to my next problem with women; they always must be pampered. They must be the top priority in every situation. The term "Drama Queen" is feminine because men are willing to accept the fact that they can't be important to everyone at every moment of every day. In addition to wanting to be important to everyone else, they want men to be very much less important than they.

Sex, to them, is solely about their need to feel desired and wanted and beautiful; marriage is about their dignity in bearing children; art is an expression of the female grace; and music exists for the likes of the female ear. Men are not important unless they are ensuring the sex, dignified marriage, beautiful portrait, pleasing melodies of women in the world today.

But I am getting way too far off of my subject.

Pansy Parkinson has no idea why I am dating her. In her mind, I enjoy listening to her complain about her lessons, professors, and roommates; I am the perfect, heterosexual boyfriend who would do anything for her, and I am already planning our wedding, even though I am well aware that our relationship will not live to see the end of the term.

And in fact, if ever she found the reason for my dating her, I doubt she would be able to believe it.

I am so utterly drained by dating her that I have been forced to write all of this down and hide it thoroughly at the bottom of my trunk, and I probably won't remember that I've written it until I repack my trunk for the autumn term six months from now.

There have been rumors (that the rumors have been every bit the truth is entirely irrelevant) that I have been cavorting with members of my own (sane) male gender in a fashion unsuiting to the ideals my father has set for me. I would not be concerned but for the fact that it would break my mother's heart to hear that I liked boys, and I love my mother too, too much to allow that to happen. If my father found out, my mother would also, and I simply cannot risk that in my life.

So I must continue this charade with Pansy (who is, I believe, growing to suspect my devotion to her; she constantly, now, asks me what's wrong, if everything is okay, if something is bothering me. She assumes it's her, and she is only looking for her flaw so she might be able to fix it. If I told her I didn't like her because she was lacking a penis I think she might not entirely believe me, or if she did she would certainly not like it, and my adoring fans in the Parkinson household would suddenly not adore me quite as much) until I can dissuade her from my affections in a way which would not jeopardize my reputation.

After all, with a last name like Malfoy there is no possibility that it was another with the same name; everything I do wrong will haunt me -- especially with a father like mine, who would condemn me if ever I let slip that my fantasies are not of a "nice girl like Pansy," but instead of the world's golden boy and his shining emerald eyes, a "definite threat to everything the Dark Lord has ever worked for" -- no matter that my intentions may be.

+

Thank you, Raven; though you exemplify every negative aspect of the female gender, you (at very least attempt to) accept the fact that I, too, am not perfect, and that is why I love you, even when your actions betray your double X chromosome, even when you kick me offline to tell me that your newest infatuation has a girlfriend. I wish I could have been more sympathetic to a situation I have been in entirely too many times.

+

All characters used in this piece of fiction are property of J.K. Rowling and copyright Warner Brothers.

+

Song lyrics are property of Papa Roach and copyright Viva La Cucaracha Music.

+

Chapter Ten coming soon to a fan fiction archive near you.


End file.
